


The Old One Two

by pissedofsandwich



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5017399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desperate for a job, Newt takes up a shady offer from a high school friend. The job is to play the medic for WICKED, an underground boxing ground. Newt doesn't plan to stay around, but when a certain Korean fighter catches his eyes, his plans all fall to pieces. </p><p>Somehow, cupcakes play a major role in the whole mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Minho, Three Years Ago

**Author's Note:**

> http://devinyalkinphotography.com/portfolios/the-old-one-two/ this is where i got the title from. it's a really breathtaking photography project that captures the lives inside an underground boxing ground. this fic is very self-indulgent. but who doesn't want to see minho in boxer shorts?
> 
> let me know what you think of the prologue! message me on tumblr (mighty-poffertjes). 
> 
> (special thanks to myra, my crazy headcanon buddy, and ivo for the moral support.)

_Minho, 3 years ago_

_-_

The first time he comes home after a night in the ring, his oldest brother asks a lot questions. _Where did you get this money? Where did you get that black eye? Are you okay?_ Somehow, Minho finds that answering the first two questions are the easiest. Minkyu is eight at the time. He likes reading comic books and his favorite movie is Lord of the Rings. Minho drops to his knees, looking at Minkyu seriously.

“I was fighting a dragon,” Minho lies.

His brother’s eyes lit up instantly. He looks at Minho like he just gave him everything he wants for Christmas ( _Star Wars legos and new shoes_ , Minho mentally reminds himself). “Cool,” he says, all the innocence of an eight-year-old gathered up in his brown eyes. “I wanna be like you someday,” he continues, and Minho’s heart stops.

“No,” Minho says, grips his brother by the shoulders hard. “No,” he says again, more fiercely this time, because he’s scared, so scared that his brother would turn out like him. “Don’t be like me. Look me in the eye and tell me you _won’t_ be like me.”

“But why? You gave us money! And you slayed all of those dragons!”

“You just can’t,” Minho shakes his head. “You can’t be like me. You can be a doctor, a vet, a teacher, hell, you can even be one of those pretentious poets who can't seem to anything but complain about society, but you can’t be like me. You have to promise me that.”

Bewildered, all Minkyu does is nod. Minho makes him say it— _I will never be like you—_ and at the time, it’s enough. Minho lets him go and he goes to sit with his other siblings at the dinner table, waiting for his mother to warm up the cheap Chinese food Minho bought. They sit together and chat happily, and Minho watches from the living room, his oldest brother Minkyu teaching the twins the prayer they always say before dinner, the youngest of them all, Sarang, fiddling with her spoon and fork.

“Minho,” his mom calls. “Come on, eat!”

“Yeah,” Minho nods, walking towards the table. He catches a glimpse of himself in the body-length mirror in the hallway, and is taken aback by how wrecked he looks. He’s got bruises all over his body, a black eye, a split in his lips, and his knuckles are still red and raw. When his mom sees him, Minho thinks she knows exactly how he made his money, but she smiles tightly at him and tells him to wash his hands before eating.

He colors the sink red.

-

Ava Paige runs the ring like no one else can. She keeps a tidy system; she exchanges the cycle of fighters every month, and if someone’s out, someone new will replace their place in no time. No one can remember who runs the ring before her, or why she is trusted for that position, but she is efficient and clever. She doesn’t exactly play by the rules, but in the scene, who does, really? One doesn't get far in this business without breaking some rules, and Ava would go to unbelievable lengths to meet her goals. And she is a visionary woman. She does this because she knows she's good at it, and she enjoys it.

“And soon, you will learn to enjoy it too,” she says to him after his third fight. In a room full of sweat  and grime, she is the only one put together, hair done up, wearing a white-suit and blood-red lipstick. She puts a hand on his shoulders. “You’re beginning to become a great asset. Your presence here is truly an excellent addition to our business.”

Minho doesn’t think of it as anything, at the time. Thinks it’s probably mandatory for Ava, to make the newbies feel like they actually belong here, make a steady income out beating the crap out of people. When he finds out that Ava doesn’t say anything she doesn’t mean, it’s three months later, just before he is about to go on the ring. At that point, he’s participated in quite a lot of fights—enough to make him stop bothering to count, enough to make him stop paying attention to the person he’s fighting.

Ava pulls her into her little shoebox office and says, “Minho, you are an asset.” She rattles off a series of things he’s done that are apparently amazing, and Minho listens. When she’s done, she tells him to look her in the eye. Minho does—he never notices how cold her eyes are, before today.

“Yes?” Minho prompts. He’s getting a little impatient. It’s the twins’ birthday next week, and Minho doesn’t have enough money to buy both of them presents. Usually, the twins get joint presents, but they’re older now, and Minho thinks they deserve separate birthday presents. He’s thinking maybe a new pair of shoes, a pink one and a purple one, maybe, or a—

“And that’s why we need you to lose tonight,” Ava says.

“What?” Minho blinks.

“In this business, when you’re too good, you make more enemies,” Ava laces her fingers together. “You, Minho, have made us more enemies than we have in the past two years.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing?” Minho asks. “If we win every time, more people would be betting on us. More money for us. For you. For WICKED. Isn’t that how this works?”

Ava plasters him with a pitying look. “No, Minho,” she says sadly. “This isn’t how it works.”

“I can’t lose to him,” Minho says.

“Yes, you can,” Ava insists. “You can, and you will. You will receive payment as usual, and some tips, if you’re lucky. You just need to lose. Only you and I will know who the real winner is. You see, Minho, you’re very good. Only three months you’ve been here, and you’re already so good. You have never lost a fight. It’s attracted more patronsthan ever, but you are a curse to other rings. Their visitor number is decreasing gradually, and we can’t have that. Have you ever wondered, Minho, why there's never been bloodshed? Because there's _balance_. But you are disrupting it. That’s why, Minho, you should try not be number one for once in a while.”

Minho can't believe what he's hearing.

"I... need to think about this," he says. First he considers the facts: he will get payment as usual. That's a pro... right? He will still have enough money to buy presents for the twins, and food to put on the table tonight. But he will have to lose. Deliberately. And that's... not exactly a pro. 

Yeah, he does this because he needs the money, but there isn't anyway he's letting himself lose deliberately because some weak fucks are afraid of competition. WICKED are gaining more popularity each night with the number of wins they're getting, and Minho never loses. Not once. He isn't about to start now.

Ava's eyes are trained on him, steely blue eyes expecting him to nod and agree.

"Okay," Minho says.

Ava smiles, pleased. She reaches out to touch his shoulder lightly. "I knew you could be trusted," Ava says.

There are many things that Minho is, but obedient is not one of them. He is good at being an actor, though. Other than the fist, acting is another thing that comes naturally. He is a good liar, a good pretender, and it's easy for him to rise from his seat, shake Ava's hand and say the things she wants to hear. It's easy for him to make Ava believe that he's going to go by her rules.

When he steps into the ring, he is ruthless. His opponent is twice the size of him, but Minho is not afraid. The bigger your body mass is, the harder it is to be agile, and Minho easily gains the upper hand. He is quick, efficient in his moves, doesn't use more power than he needs to. Maybe he lets himself be pushed around for the first few nine minutes, but by the fifth round he is growing tired of his opponent's offense tactics and fights back. His opponent howls when Minho lands a solid punch to his stomach, and while he's coughing up blood on the ring floor, Minho brings his other fist and finishes him by the tenth round.

The referee declares him a victor.

He can see that Ava is not pleased. He doesn't expect her to be. He just disobeyed a direct order, after all. He makes sure to grin at her when he's walking out of the ring, leaving his opponent crouching on the ground in pain.

Ava, strangely, grins back at him.

-

He gets the money, he changes as quickly as he can in the locker room, and he goes to train station. On his way, he decides to buy cupcakes. There's a little bakery that opens until late night, and Minho is a frequent costumer. The shop has the best breakfast food in town (the pie is heavenly), and all the workers are nice. Especially the owner, a lithe tall black lady who always gives him a discount. She's nearly always accompanied by a female friend who, on a closer look, may not exactly be _just_ a friend at all. But tonight the lady's missing her girlfriend, though it doesn't stop her from smiling brightly at him and attempts to make small talk. Minho almost feels bad for only answering in short one-word sentece, but human interaction that doesn't involve fists or insults are never his biggest forte.

He asks for two chocolate cupcakes for the twins, a strawberry and cheese cupcake for  his mom, red velvet for Sarang, oreo for Minkyu, and a plain cupcake for himself. The lady gives him a free hot peppermint tea, because "You look like you needed it."

He boards the train in high spirits, even whistling a little as he makes his way home.

He feels happy, and most of all, he feels accomplished. Okay, so he feels a little smug, but he feels like he deserves to be. His life has been shitty for nearly a decade now, wow, so if embarrassing a whole fight club is what makes him happy, then he's fucking allowed to. Besides, he's got _cupcakes_. 

Today is a very good day.

His mom never locks the key, so he pushes the door open and announces, loudly, "Mom, I'm home!"

"Welcome home, Minho."

Minho swears his heart stop, right then and there.

Ava, still in the suit she wears back at the match, sits in the living room, sipping tea from his mother's favorite ornate cup. She looks out of place, her white suit unmatching the ratty furniture and the slowly peeling paint on the wall. She smiles, like she always is, and that's when Minho realizes, though he has won many matches, he never really wins. Not really.

"Such a nice home you have," Ava comments.

"What the _fuck_ ," Minho asks, his voice caught in his throat, "are you doing here?"

"Can't I pay a little visit to my favorite fighter?" Ava clicks her tongue. "I talked a little with your mom. A lovely woman, she is. We talk a lot about you. Especially about the fact that you don't seem to take orders very well."

Minho feels panic bubbling up inside his chest. _Ava. His mom_. "Where is she?" he demands, stepping into her space. "What the fuck did you do to her?"

"Minho?"

At that voice, Minho's head snaps up. It's Sarang, peeking from behind a wall fearfully. Minho feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, and he surges up towards her, cupcakes forgotten on the floor. He hugs her tightly, thanking God over and over.

"Are you okay? They didn't do anything to you, did you? Where is Mom? Minkyu? Are the twins inside?"

Sarang laughs. "We are fine," she says. "Look, Janson is playing lego with Minkyu. He is so cooool!"

Janson. He vaguely remembers Ava's bodyguard, the one that he recalls to have a long nose and teeth that make him look like a rat. Everybody calls him Rat Man behind his back.

He is the one who beats up people when they can't behave.

He scoops Sarang into his arms and all but flees into the dining room, heart pounding in his chest. He finds Rat Man on the floor, playing legos with Minkyu, like Sarang said they are. The twins watch them from the side, fascinated in the little blue blocks the size of their thumbs.

His mom, fixing dinner in the kitchen, smiles at him.

"Minho," she says. "I didn't hear you come home! You know, you never told me your co-workers are so nice. They brought me groceries," she says in Korean.

"It's nothing, Ma'am," Rat Man pipes up in Korean. His smile is nice, but Minho is not naive. "It's really nothing compared to what Minho has done for our, _ah_ , company."

Ava chooses that time to walk into the dining room, thanking his mom in Korean for the fantastic tea. His mom blushes, and excitedly insists that the two of them stay for dinner. "It's been a long time since I cooked a real meal," she says in Korean. "Those instant pasta, they're not real food. Stay for dinner. It's the least I can do for such good employers."

"Oh, Ma'am, you really didn't have to," Ava says, but she settles herself on the dinner table anyway.

They eat, and Minho can't help feeling like he is staring down the barrel of a gun.

-

His mom insists that Minho walk Ava and Rat Man to the door. "It's what a gentleman would do," his mom tells him, face bright.

At the door, Ava hugs him. "Thank you for the meal," she says. "Such a lovely, lovely family. It would be a shame if it were to be broken."

"Stay away from my family," Minho hisses. He wants to punch her. He wants to choke her and watch her die. But Ava's arms are still around him, and Minho can't do that. Not here.

Ava laughs, an eerie sound, chilling him to the bones. "I can see why you are the person you are today, after meeting your mom," she says, blatantly ignoring him. "And your siblings. Such joyous kids, they are."

"What's your point?" Minho demands. He wishes he sounds furious, but he can't hide the way his voice shakes.

"That you never win," Ava answers. "That whenever you threw the last punch and thought you won, you didn't. You only win because I let you win."

Her fingers rest lightly on his shoulders, a promise of what she is capable of. "Maybe next time you think about disobeying me, think about your family, will you?"

-

 


	2. Newt, Three Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from this chapter on, until stated otherwise, the story will be set three years after the first chapter. this is unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. i gotta post this before i lose the free internet hahaha. thank you for the kind comments and kudos in the first chapter! as always, i dedicate this to ivo and myra.

_Newt, three years later_

-

Gally tells Newt he has a job for him.

That alone should make Newt suspicious. They've never gotten along in high school, and when they, funnily enough, got into the same med school after high school, Newt finds it difficult to not dislike him. Gally comes from old money; he doesn't need to think about the amount of debt he will be in once he graduates, and any decent person will be grateful and study hard, but he acts like none of that matters. And it drives Newt crazy, because you're supposed to take med school very seriously. He ends up getting expelled after doing some serious property damage, and Newt doesn't hear from him again.

Until he, quite literally, bumps into him in the cheapest, dingiest, halfway decent bar in Brooklyn.

He is supposed to be at the family dinner, but Newt absolutely has had enough of his parents' lectures. Newt just wants to be alone that night, nursing a bottle of beer and sulking about how hard it is to get a job these days. He's tried to apply to hospitals he's gotten internships at, but none is hiring. That's not the worst of it, though. The worst part about his life right now is his parents, the endless "should've taken a law degree" conversations (more like yelling match, to be honest) that are ever-present at the dinner table. And they wonder why Newt never comes home. The only thing that gets him through every family dinner is his sister Sonya, who always manages to steal the spotlight with the fact that she's dating a woman and taking an art major.

But Newt supposes it can always be worse.

Sonya's name flashes on the cracked screen of his iPhone- he dropped it while he was on watch in Emergency last year. _Where are you?_ soon followed by, _You ditched me didn't you,_  and then _Fuck you man, Harriet will never let you have cupcakes for free ever again,_  and finally, _I will pee on everything you love_.

Harriet, Sonya's girlfriend of six months, makes the best cupcake Newt has ever tasted. Newt winces. He's about to tap out a quick sad emoji when someone bumps into him, spilling beer all over his jeans.

"Shit," Newt curses. These are the only clean pair he has left, and this stranger has just forced him to be an adult and do laundry. Newt is not amused.

"Well shit, man," a slurring voice said, and Newt looks up to see, unexpectedly, Gally, taller and broader now, his nose looking like it's been recently broken and sporting an impressive-looking bruise on the side of his face. "You were in the wrong for being in the way."

Of course Gally won't apologize. When has ever felt like he isn't right?

Newt decides Gally isn't worth it.

"Wait, wait," Gally suddenly grabs his shoulders, spins him around to get a closer look at his face. "If it isn't little Newtie!" He frowns, realizing that Newt is taller than him. Actually, Newt is taller than most people. "Huh, not so little anymore after all. You've grown pretty tall, Newt!"

Drunk. Gally is definitely drunk. "Nice to see you, Gally," Newt says dryly. "Now let me go."

"Oooh, guy's grown some balls now!" Gally doesn't let go; he pulls Newt closer instead, smirking. "Come on, Newtie. Let me introduce you to my friends. We'll reminisce, yeah? I haven't seen you in ages. How's that medical degree going out for you? You fucking any of your patients yet?"

Newt yanks Gally's hands off his shoulders, maybe with a little too much force, but Newt doesn't care. "We never got along," Newt reminds him. "You poured your piss down my shoes, remember? At prom?"

"And you uploaded my dick online, I remember," Gally shrugs easily. "But let's not dwell on the past, shall we? We're all grown-ups now. We've  got jobs and shit now." At the ashen look on Newt's face, something clicks in Gally's head. "Wait," he's half laughing already, "you're unemployed!"

"Shut the fuck up," Newt growls.

"Oh, this is too funny," Gally says. "Newt, honor student at the best high school in town, graduated med school with flying colors, couldn't get a job! And the drop-out," he gestures to all of him, "is living the time of his life."

"Well, not all of us are spending Daddy's money," Newt says. "So, you know. You had it easy."

"At least I'm not starving. And I got laid every day!" He eyes the girls who are standing near the bar, giving them a sly wink. It should be ridiculous seeing a man with a black eye trying to wink, but the girls burst into a peal of flirty giggles. Newt decides they have bad taste in men.

"And I suppose they also give you that?" Newt raises his eyebrow at the bruise blooming on Gally's face.

Gally looks hurt for a moment, but it's gone in a flash. He claps his hands and laughs, pleased for some reason Newt doesn't know. "You really wanna know how I got this black eye?"

"Not really, no," Newt says. There's no other choice but to go home and face his family now, late as he is. He'd just tell them he got stuck in traffic. At least that way Sonya will still convince Harriet to let him steal cupcakes at lunch.

He gets up, but Gally puts a hand on his chest. "Where are you goin'? The party hasn't even started!"

"Somewhere that's not crawling with idiots," Newt answers.

"You really have grown some balls," Gally chuckles. "Tell you what, I have a job for you."

Newt looks at him skeptically. "I am not interested in whatever job you're involved in."

"See this?" Gally points at the ugly bruised on his jaw, completely disregarding Newt's earlier statement. "I got this from my job."

"You're a hitman or something?"

"I box. Three days a week," Gally says, unfazed by Newt's comment. "And I'm fuckin' good at it. WICKED, that's the ring I work for-- we're fucking good, man. 16 wins out of 20 matches."

Newt looks on in disinterest. He picks up an empty glass from the bar. "This, Gally, is how much I give a fuck about it."

"No, you're not hearing the good part yet!" Gally beckons Newt closer, and whispers conspirationally, "We're hiring. Not fighters, no. You wouldn't last a minute in the ring. We need a medic. Our last medic guy ran after he saw one match. One fucking match. Some guys are just beyond hopeless. But you, Newtie, you can handle it, don't you?"

Newt tries not to show how offended he is that Gally thinks he wouldn't. "Still not interested," Newt says stubbornly.

Gally holds his hands up. "Fine," he says. "But if you change your mind, you know the address. There's only one WICKED in New York."

-

In the end, Newt didn't go to the dinner anyway. He told his parents he was sick ("But you're a doctor! Doctors don't get sick!) and, consequently, Sonya became their favorite topic to chew on the whole night. 

"Don't talk to me," she says immediately as Newt approaches him at Harriet's bakery, holding up her palm in a "talk to the hand" gesture.

"Sonya. Seriously. I ditched you _one_ time."

"Harriet, did you hear that? I think someone's talking."

Newt sighs long-sufferingly. Sonya is pointedly not looking at him. Harriet looks like she's caught in a crossfire.

"What can I get you?" Harriet asks him.

Sonya looks utterly betrayed. "Harriet, _what_? You were supposed to be on my side!"

"I never agreed on picking sides!" Harriet argues. "And for once, he's not stealing my cupcakes. He's giving me money."

"Money that he also spent on cheap beer last night," Sonya says venomously.

Someone walks into the shop before Newt can from any reply. An Asian guy his age walks in, wearing a black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscles underneath. Sonya perks up almost instantly, and Newt would tease her for being so unabashedly thirsty if he isn't as entranced in the stranger as her.

Because, _wow_.

Some chromosomes do carry better genes.

The guy says something to him. Harriet has to whack him before Newt snaps out of it.

"Move out of the way," Harriet says. "Someone here is actually buying something."

The guy smiles apologetically at him. On a closer look, Newt can see that he's almost the same height as Newt, which is perfect because Newt hates being the tallest in a crowd. Even the bruise beginning to bloom on his jaw does nothing to hinder his overall gorgeousness.

Newt, face burning, quickly steps aside.

Just his luck. Embarrassing himself in the face of a hot guy.

At least he still has some decency. Sonya is openly staring, though the guy doesn't seem to notice.

He says something to Harriet. Probably his order. Harriet receives his money and the guy receives his order.

There's a moment of silence in the shop, like nobody dares to miss the moment he pushes the door open, the flexing of his muscles as he does so, before walking out of the shop.

Sonya sighs dreamily. "Hot Korean Guy gets hotter and hotter each day," she says.

"Am I not hot?" Harriet says in mock hurt.

"Of course you are! You're like, smokin'. But these eyes cannot stop themselves. Hot Korean Guy is hot," Sonya says. "And I am still bisexual. How are you able to talk like a functioning human being in the face of such perfection?"

"Don't be so overdramatic," Harriet rolls her eyes, but it's fond. "I mean, yeah, Hot Korean Guy is hot, but it gets boring after a while."

"Wait, after a while?" Newt half-yelps. "You mean to say Hot Korean Guy has been coming here a lot?"

"Yeah, every day," Harriet confirms. "And every time, this tool drools over his muscles like a baby."

"Every day? How could I have missed him before?" Ten months he's been stealing cupcakes from here, and only one time he's seen Hot Korean Guy. This is why Newt never gets a job.

"Well, mostly because there's no pattern in his visit," Harriet says. "Sonya and I like to make up stories about it."

"What do you mean?" Newt asks. "And how do you know he's Korean?"

"His name's Minho," Harriet supplies helpfully.

"You know his name and you still call him Hot Korean Guy? And you still haven't answered my first question," Newt says.

"She would've, but you won't shut up," Sonya says.

Newt sticks his tongue out at her.

Harriet makes a "simmer down, children" gesture. Newt is reminded of that one scene in Jurassic World that got turned into memes.

(Harriet could trump Chris Pratt any day. Newt's gay as a stick, but those abs. Wow.)

"Hot Korean Guy comes every day, alright. Well, almost every day. He doesn't talk much, doesn't talk to initiate a conversation like your usual frequent costumer," Harriet starts conspirationally. "Which is normal. Not many people like to talk. But what does he do for a living? He doesn't wear a uniform. He wears t-shirts and muscle tees, and okay, he could be working at the gym, but why is he always sporting bruises?"

"Maybe he lifts," Newt says, "or does cross-fit."

"Harriet's friend Aris works at the gym and he's never seen Hot Korean Guy there," Sonya says. "Trust me, he would know if someone like him had been there."

"Maybe his gym is far away," Newt says.

"But why would he come here?" Sonya says.

"Because of Harriet's cupcakes?"

"Valid reason, but unlikely," Harriet says. "His order is always the same-- plain cupcake, coffee. Sometimes sandwiches or pies. But one time, he bought six cupcakes.”

"And then he doesn't come in again for the next three weeks," Sonya continues.

"And when he finally does, he looks super sad. I asked him where he's been, and he just looked at the piece of strawberry cupcake like his dog just died," Harriet says. "Oh, and I remember that he was especially bruised that day. Like he was just in a fistfight or something."

"A street fighter," Sonya concludes. "Or a boxer."

"There is boxing ground here, Sonya," Harriet says.

_There is only one WICKED in New York._

Newt blinks.

As Harriet and Sonya argue the possibility of Hot Korean Guy being a boxer vs some kind of dirty work doer, Newt's mind takes him back to the conversation he had with Gally the other night. About the boxing ground he works at. _WICKED_. 

It makes sense, kind of. Gally boxes three times a week at WICKED and ends up bloody and bruised. This Minho could work at the same place as Gally does. But if WICKED is as good as Gally has made it out to be, surely Sonya or Harriet would have heard of it. 

But it never hurts to ask, doesn't it?

"Hey, sorry to interrupt," Newt says. "You guys ever heard of WICKED?"


	3. when you have a concussion but bae calls you hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which newt finds out WICKED steals ideas from kingsman, the medic at the ring is completely and utterly useless, and who hot korean guy really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so so so sorry, first of all. i didn't mean to drag it this long. by the time this is published, i doubt anyone even remembers what the story is about. i really do apologize. i don't have excuses, but these are the facts: i got hospitalized, diganosed with hepatitis a, and still not allowed to go home until my sgot/sgpt rate is back to normal. (it's supposed to be around 37, but last monday it's still 500. i know. i don't even drink.) this chapter probably sucks, but i wanna write something for all of you, so, here's chapter 3! <3
> 
> shoutout to myra and ivo for being such supporting babes. and of course, all of you
> 
> also. i haven't had time to research. obviously. i'm not a doctor. I'M SO SORRY @MED-STUDENTS/DOCTORS

"WICKED?" Sonya says. "You mean like the musical with the green witch?"

"No, I mean, like a place," Newt clarifies, then realizes asking them is a dumb move. WICKED is supposed to be an underground boxing ground, this super secretive fight club that no one would recognize by name. It probably needs a code or a password or something, like in the movies. "Well...at least I think it's a place."

"I don't know," Harriet says. "Sounds fishy."

"What about it?" Sonya asks him.

Newt contemplates telling them about Gally and his shady offer. He almost never keeps anything from his sister; they've been nearly inseparable since she was born. He considers the pros and cons.

_Cons_ : it's illegal. Seriously. _Gally_ offered him that job.

_Pros_ : none. If he tells Sonya, she will whack him across the head and be angry at him for even thinking about getting involved in something that can potentially be a crime. And then Harriet will not let him steal her cupcakes again.

Newt shrugs. "Just something that I read on the internet," he lies.

Harriet makes a humming noise, like she just remembered something abruptly. "Maybe you meant the Glade."

"The tailor?" Sonya says. "There's nothing wicked about that place. It's just _sad_."

"What's the Glade?" Newt asks.

"It's the small tailor beside the pet shop," Harriet explains. "We went there for fun a few weeks ago, just to see what's inside. We were curious because no one ever seems to come in there. It's so sad, there's only this one half-senile clerk who can barely hear with his old blind dog. I think he already forgot the difference between silk and cotton. He keeps muttering about something wicked, though."

"I mean, the sign does say, _There's only one WICKED in New York_ ,'" Sonya notes off-handedly.

Newt's head shoots up at that. "Did you say,   _There's only one WICKED in New York_?"

"Yeah," Sonya says. "It's what it says under the name on the sign. Like their motto or something, I guess."

"Why would you go to a tailor, though?" Harriet says. "You need a suit or something?"

"Oohh, are you going on a date? What happened to the suit you wore on prom night?" Sonya says.

Newt shudders. Every time Sonya mentions prom, all he can remember is the mortifying moment where Gally pours his piss down his shoes. "A date is the last thing on my mind right now," he moans, glad at the change of topic. "I couldn't even get a fuckin' job."

"You could get a date, then a job," Sonya giggles (she _giggles_. There's someone who actually giggles in real life), bumping her hips against Harriet's. "Like me."

"It's fortunate that you make killer coffee," Harriet says. "Otherwise, I would have fired you so many times."

Sonya giggles again and kisses the top of Harriet's head.

"Get a fucking room," Newt grimaces.

"You're just salty we never told you Hot Korean Guy exists," Sonya says. "Oh, do you want us to introduce you to him?"

"No, please," Newt says. "My life is hard enough as it is, I don't need you to embarrass me in front of the hottest guy I've ever seen on top of it."

"Or! I can introduce you to this guy I met in the library," Sonya says excitedly. "Or this guy who works at the music shop..."

As the conversation travels towards the topic of Newt's singleness, the matter of Gally's offer is forgotten momentarily. On his way home, Newt passes the Glade, the sign hanging on the double doors halfway to embarking on a freefall, the lights inside dim. It looks tiny, but for all Newt knows, there could be a tunnel hidden underneath. He's tempted to walk in, but he forces himself to walk on. He's not desperate enough for a job to take an illegal one.

Not yet.

-

He's so _fucking desperate_ for a job it's not even funny.

It's been three weeks since he passed the Glade, and his parents have finally hit the iceberg with the last comment they made about Newt's medical degree (they said that Newt only wanted to be a doctor because he wanted to be seen as a noble person, and Newt hates, more than anything, people who question his motives).

Similar to his condition three weeks ago, he is also nursing a bottle of beer.

In retrospect, storming out like that may have been a little overdramatic. Sonya has been sending worried text messages for the past three; their parents hate it when there are phones on the table, Newt can only suspect she's snuck her phone under the table. Newt feels bad for ignoring all of them, but sue him for wanting to sulk a little.

He hasn't gotten a job. Which is fine. A lot of people in the world are unemployed, a lot of them probably even in the same exact position as he is right now, staring at a half-empty bottle of beer. He's thought about Gally's offer a lot in the past days, more than he's allowed himself to. He doesn't want to want to take that job; anything that could potentially land him in jail is nowhere near anything he dreams of doing after med school.

But it's also the job available right now.

A voice in the back of his head, sounding an awful lot like Gally's, suddenly speaks up. _If it's even still available now. You're not the only one desperate for a job, you know._

Newt tells the voice to shut up.

_You can't deny that I'm wrong_ , the voice says again. Which is true. If he's being completely honest with himself, he's been stalling.

The only thing he has to do is enter the door.

Newt ponders the possibilities.

So what if it's illegal? People do illegal stuff all the time. All of that drugs, music and movie piracy-- hell, a good portion of his med textbooks are in pdf, which he downloaded for free off the internet. And the FBI hasn't showed up on his door with a gun to his head.

Okay, not a fair comparison. But.

His phone vibrates again, the screen lighting up, announcing a new text message.

It's Sonya, as always. _Mom said sorry. Of course she knows it isn't enough, but she "will try to do better."_

_Ha. We both know it's bullshit. Right, Newt?_

_Goddammit, Newt. At least reply to my texts._

Newt puts his phone on silent and pockets it.

Gally said just stop by. What is the harm in just seeing? The worst thing that can happen is that the police busted them. But if Newt's only an innocent by-stander, he technically is not doing any crime, right? Technically, he hasn't done anything wrong to land himself in prison, right? 

Newt makes a decision.

If Newt bothers to turn on his phone, he will see Sonya's most recent text: _Don't do anything stupid._

And the most, most recent: _Please._

If he bothers to respond, he'll say, _Too late_.

-

Ava wants him to lose tonight.

Which fucking sucks. Because by the sixth round, Minho has to act like he's weak and take every single one of Doucheface's punches. And he will not be able to fight back. Because Ava wants him to lose.

He is going to be so bruised after this ends.

Where the _fuck_ is the medic?

_Oh, yeah_ , Minho recalls as he steps away from Doucheface Whatshisname, blocking the half-assed punch he's directing to his face. _He pissed himself and ran the fuck out._

Doucheface stumbles as Minho jabs at him. Minho suddenly remembers that he has to pretend like he's weaker than him. _Right_. He's been busy laughing at the techniques Doucheface is presenting to remember what he's supposed to do.

Doucheface charges again, and Minho steps around him sloppily. Doucheface hits his face and Minho staggers back, feeling copper on his mouthpiece. Ouch. So Doucheface has a laughable technique, but he's got a _powerful_ punch.

He's getting better and better at acting. The next time Brenda asks him what he does, he should just tell her he's a stuntman.

The sixth round ends after three minutes. Alby takes his mouthpiece off and helps him to a bottle of water. He grimaces at the bruise beginning to bloom around Minho's eyes. "That looks bad," he comments.

"It will probably be worse," Minho says because Doucheface knows he's winning, and he knows Minho is not allowed to fight back. He looks around and sees the worried faces of people betting on him and feels sorry for their lost money.

He wishes he could still have the courage to fight back.

Alby clasps his shoulder. "It's starting again," he says. Minho takes his mouthpiece and lets Alby pull him into a one-armed hug before running back into the ring.

Ava stands back, pristine white, and watches.

-

Newt is not sure how he's supposed to do this.

So coming here half-drunk is probably not the best idea. He's sobered up a little during the car ride to the Glade (WICKED, whatever), which costs him a fortune, and begins to realize that maybe he hasn't thought this through.

He wonders if he looks suspicious. A six-foot tall mess of limbs standing still in front of a closed near-bankrupt tailor in the middle of the night, just staring at it like it's going to magically open its doors for him.

Should he knock? If someone walks by, would they call 911, thinking he's a robber or a drunk kid trying to break into private property?

Newt takes a step closer.

And another, and another, until he's face to face with the closed sign hanging on the door. Newt's not really sure what he's doing, but he pushes on the doors, and gives a startled sound at the fact that they're not locked.

Newt slides inside easily.

Okay. This feels weird, like it's too easy to be legitimate. Maybe Gally is just bluffing. Maybe this is all a lie. Maybe he should just get the fuck out of here and go get a job at Target or something, because now that he's inside, surrounded by darkness, the fact that this is probably not the best idea begins to dawn on him.

"Are you here for a fitting?"

Newt jumps at the sound. " _Holy fucking shit_ ," he curses.

A man steps out of the shadows. Newt expects him to be the old, senile man Harriet told him about, but instead what he sees is a man in his late thirties with a few grey streaks in his hair. He wears a smart suit, a white turtleneck and brown blazer, and his pants are ironed. His shoes make an intimidating click-clack sound as he walks towards Newt.

"I think I'm lost," Newt says dumbly.

"No, you're just right on time," the man says. At a closer look, Newt can see the shape of his face, how his nose seems unsettlingly long and how his teeth are too big on the front. He looks like a rat. "No one is ever lost. There is, after all, only one WICKED in New York."

"That's not cryptic at all," Newt says.

Rat Man (he should really stop nicknaming people; Sonya and Harriet are rubbing off on him) makes a "this way" gesture. "No, it's true. What you're looking for is just through that door."

Newt glances at the direction Rat Man is pointing. There is, unmistakably, a door on the wall next to him. Newt wonders if this is a sort of Tardis-like situation, where the inside is actually bigger than what it looks on the outside.

But he's been probably watching too much science-fiction.

Newt stays where he is.

Rat Man gives a sigh, like he's been through this so many times before. He walks to the door, opens it, and Newt sees... a wall. A metallic wall. Wait, it's an elevator.

Newt gapes. "What is this, _Kingsman_?"

"No," Rat Man says, with that long-suffering look on his face again. "This is WICKED. The boxing ground is--well, underground. It's exactly down here."

Newt still can't believe it. He feels too sober for this.

Rat Man sighs again.

"We're not serial killers," he promises, and enters the little elevating box. "Come. If you die, I will, too."

"I'm pretty sure I'm trippin' balls," Newt says, but he follows after him anyway.

Rat Man presses a button, and down they go.

-

They key is to ignore the pain.

Which is not healthy, Alby told him so many times, dabbing alcohol on his bruises. What can he do? If he feels pain, he fights back. He is brought up that way. Only fighting back is the one thing that he isn't supposed to do to night. Beggars don't get to be choosers; even after his aunt assured him many times that his family is safe and sound in Korea, he can't take the risk.

He tries to think about anything else, but it's too distracting. He has to make it look like he's fighting back, it will be far too obvious if he lets himself zone out. Doucheface will have a stellar time beating him into a pulp, but the crowd is too clever. And Ava is dangerous. The ring is dangerous. He doesn't want another reminder of that.

He finds other things to focus on, instead. He likes to pretend he's looking at Douchface, in reality he's looking right past him, at the sea of people gathered around cheering for both sides. People slapping money on tables, people taking notes, whispering. Betting. At first it's disconcerting, nowadays Minho feels strangely comforted by it. At least there are people who are willing to give away money for him. People who trust him enough to lose money--or gain--over him.

Then again, most of the patrons are rich young kids living off daddy's money.

A voice in his head, sounding a lot like Gally, tells him not to adhere to stereotypes. He almost laughs. _Right_. Guess not all rich people live off daddy's money. Some people suffer in the most terrible way, loaded to burst with money and bathing in gold every morning. It must be so hard, to be born with that much trust fund, it must feel like such a burden, lowly peasants like Minho would never understand.

Doucheface is getting more aggressive now, which means time to fake being exhausted. See, he is getting so good at acting. Hollywood should call him. Maybe he should talk to the guy in the suit who's sitting beside an overenthusiastic girl in a blue tank-top. He looks like he's got awesome connections. The girl is definitely his too-young, just barely alcohol legal, trophy girlfriend that he uses to feel young and not pathetic. He's probably divorced with three kids who hate him. Or maybe, plot twist, his girlfriend is the dark-haired woman with intense eyes sitting on his right, square-framed glasses sitting stiff on her nose. She still looks ten years younger than him, maybe more. Fresh out of college with dreams of dominating the business world filled with men with ego the size of Borneo, finding the world far too cruel and going for easy money instead, stooping low to the old man in the suit...

Minho barely missed Doucheface's fist.

He gets too trapped in his head sometimes, making up inappropriate stories about strangers he sees through a black eye. He can't help it. Call him a romantic, but he loves stories. He always wonders what makes one end up at WICKED. There's always the usual I-needed-quick-cash sob story, there's the I'm-bored-and-I-need-excitement reason, and it's all stories that are similar on some level but Minho wants to hear every single one of them.

Like the scrawny blond man who looks completely aghast at the whole scene. Definitely a first-timer. Look at how out of place he is. Leather jacket looks like a second thought on him, like he decides last minute that he needs something to make him fit in. Minho sure hopes that he isn't sweating through the expensive material, he'd hate to see such a good jacket.

It's weird that the man seems familiar.

So maybe not a first-timer. A second-timer, or a third, a face he's only seen in glimpses. Because there is no way there's someone he knows in here, right? People he knows out of the ring, he can count on one hand. His family, Brenda the next-door stoner, his landlord, but he knows his landlord when he sees her, and the nice ladies at the cupcake shop.

Although... there's a guy. Weeks ago. The same blond hair, the same frame, the same gestures.

_It can't be._

Unfortunately, something bad happens almost immediately as he starts to remember the guy. Doucheface delivers one last blow, with all his might, and Minho is knocked out.

Fucking embarrassing.

Oh, well. At least it's convincing. He feels blood trickling down his temple. That is _definitely_ not acting.

He feels dizzy. Someone helps him up. Alby, most probably, from the way he doesn't bother to be careful with his wounds. Colors swirl around in his vision, faces blurred. He can hear the disappointment in the crowd, and feels, once again, sorry for the patrons who trust him. He hopes they didn't lose too much money.

And then somewhere, out of the blobs of color, something shoots out of it. A person. Moving towards him. The person appears to be yelling.

"No, no, not like that! Are you bloody trained _at all_?"

It takes a second to realize the person is not talking to him at all.

"What the fuck is this? Alcohol swabs? You're not supposed to do that, idiot. Where's the adrenaline? You don't got one? You don't even know what that is? I don't know jack about boxing but even I know a medic is supposed to have one! You're not even the medic, aren't you?"

"Stop yelling," Minho says hoarsely. Or rather, tries to say. He's 100% sure it comes out like, _blogh yellugh_.

The person doesn't stop yelling.

"Don't fall asleep! You probably had a concussion. Stay awake. Bloody hell, stay awake!"

He wants to yell back at the tall blob of the person fuming over him. Thankfully, he is finally able to see clearly, and is surprised to find the blond guy over him, screaming at Alby.

"...should've figured this can't end well. _Fuckin_ ' Gally. Wait until Harriet and Sonya hear this. Hot Korean Guy is an illegal boxer--"

"Hot Korean Guy?" Should Minho be surprised it's the only thing he picks up during the whole ruckus? He definitely is not.

"Oh, shut up, _you_ ," the blonde guy hisses.

There's so many things that Minho wants to ask. _Why are you here, how do you know about this place, how do you know the ladies at the cupcake shop, what's your name, and did you just say I was hot?_ But he's suddenly very, very tired.

He closes his eyes.


	4. hot korean guy is capable of flirting and insulting people in one breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry. finals are a bitch. i am so tired and i need sleep im so sorry if this is terrible. (but hey, spoiler alert, at least we got some good ol' flirting going on.)

For someone who is always bone-deep tired, Minho hates sleeping. He hates that he dreams when he sleeps, he hates that it's always of his family, the happiness they could've had if only they had their time, if his dad didn't just die in a freak field work accident like that. The tired he is, the more vivid his dreams become. And right now, he feels like he's reliving the past, his younger siblings clinging on him for dear life, refusing to go.

Minkyu is angry. He never forgets that one detail. The way he puffs out his cheeks, his crossed arms on his chest. He doesn't want to talk to Minho. Sarang clutches his legs and sobs into his old, ratty jeans, while the twins wail into his other side. They don't want to go. They don't want to leave him. If it was in his power, he would do anything to keep them close to him, a family to come home to, but it's a selfish wish and his mom has always told him he needs to learn how to be selfless anyway.

His mother's gaze is hard. The edges of her eyes are wet with tears, but she won't let them fall. She clutches their legal documents and passports in her hands. She tells his siblings that it's time to go.

They're going back to Korea. He's contacted his aunt several days ago, and his aunt is more than happy to help.

Minho tries to convince himself that it's alright. He will be alone, but they will be safe. It's for their own good.

He's seen this dream so many times, traveled to the past and be further acquainted with his worst nightmares. And yet, as his family disappears into the waiting lounge, all he feels is immense pain.

-

"Wake the fuck up!"

"Shut _up_ , asshat. It won't wake him up."

Two voices. One familiar, annoyingly so, a constant to his ever-changing world. Gally. The other voice—he doesn't recognize it. Although he's certain he must have heard it somewhere...

"He's waking up! See?" Gally sounds smug about it. He always sounds smug.

Harsh fluorescent lights nearly burn his eyes. Minho squeezes his eyes shut against the rude intrusion, and tries to quiet the pounding in his head as he opens his eyes again, not so abruptly this time. He sees Gally and a boy (man?) who looks no older than him. Gally is wearing one of his obnoxious grin, and the other boy looks worried. He has wild blond hair sticking as though defying gravity, and his blue eyes showcase an intelligence and dignity that says he shouldn't belong here. He makes Minho think of disgusting, cute, sappy things that he never thought of before. Like love in a coffee shop, or maybe a cupcake shop...

Minho blinks a few times, adjusting to the new lights.

And then he remembers.

"You called me Hot Korean Guy," Minho says.

Or at least that's what he meant to say. His throat is so dry, Sahara would be a rainforest compared to this. His voice comes out in a pathetic croak.

"Quick, fetch him some water!" Gally yells.

"I am not a servant," the blond guy grumbles, but he retrieves the water bottle anyway. He helps Minho into a half-sitting position and hold the water bottle for him. Which is embarrassing. The mighty Minho, winning so many matches the other rings have to pay for him to lose, can't fucking drink water by himself.

"That was real fancy, passing out like that," Gally remarks after he's finished. "Was it part of the acting? You like being hovered over like a princess, don't you?"

Now that his throat isn't so dry, Minho tells Gally, heartfelt, "Fuck off."

Gally's laugh is booming. "That's the Minho I know. I thought you were dead."

"Would be happy if I were, wouldn't you," Minho mutters.

"Very," Gally says. "Minho, I want you to meet your lord and savior, Isaac Newton."

Minho stares at the blond, dumbfounded. "I thought he's an old dead white guy." A pause. "Wait, that's actually your real shuckin' name?"

"Humor me," the apparently Isaac Newton says dryly.

"Your mom saw the opportunity and took it, man," Minho says. He offers Isaac Newton his hand, which Isaac Newton shakes gingerly.

"Just Newt is fine," the apparently just Newt says.

"Newt here is our new medjack. That's the slang word for paramedic, if you must know, Newt. This guy's been wondering what _shuck_ means for hours," Gally cuts in before Minho can say anything important, like how the in the world does a guy from a cupcake shop decorated in pink and turquoise end up in a place like WICKED or why he called him Hot Korean Guy earlier. The latter being the _more_ important and pressing matter, of course. "At least I think he would be the new medjack. The Lady hasn't made it official. Rat Man was completely unimpressed though. He'd been down at the office, probably listing off all the reasons why we wouldn't need a medjack."

Minho shrugs. "We did fine the whole time."

"Fine?" Newt shrieks, horrified. "You called those—those imposters who can't begin to understand how to stop a head wound fine? That's your standard of fine? I wish the fuckin' health department ratted this place out, because that's not—"

"Well, I sure hope no legal government bodies would be coming here any soon," a cold voice interrupts. The smile instantly goes away from Gally's face, and now he looks tense. Minho wishes someone would knock him out again. "That'd be the end of our business, for sure."

 _Our_. Like any of her "employees" ever had a say in anything.

Ava Paige stands with Janson on her side, her hands folded in front of her. Newt obviously notices the change in the air at her arrival, and he straightens his posture. "Ma'am," Newt says.

"Well," Ava starts, "this is new. In the years I've run this place, I have never seen a patron jumped in to save our fighter like you did."

"It's, um, instinctive? I mean, I've trained my whole life to save people, so when I saw the paramedics—or should I say, _medjacks_ —mistreating his wounds, I couldn't just stand there," Newt says.

"Why not the other fighter? He suffered from wounds not unlike Minho."

Newt stutters. "He—he wasn't unconscious, though."

Ava studies Newt, her eyes carefully blank. "Gally told you about this job, yes?"

"That's right," Gally says. "He's a brilliant student back in med-school. Top of the class, has good diplomacy and social skills—"

"I asked him," Ava says. Gally turns his face away, embarassed. "What's your name?"

"Isaac Newton. But people call me Newt. It's a long story."

"Janson thinks we shouldn't hire you."

Of course Janson thinks that. Janson thinks that the fighters don't deserve professional medical attention.

He glances at Newt. He appears younger than he is. Minho is sure he's about Gally's age, or older. But his eyes exhibit a child's innocence, eyes that have not seen what cruelty is, how cruel Ava can be. Suddenly a part of him wishes that Ava decided against hiring Newt. Suddenly, a crazy, irrational part of him is flooded with the urge to preserve that innocence.

"Well... I think you should," Newt says. His voice grows more confident as he delivers his next words. "You wanna keep this ring running? You gotta make sure your fighters are up and running. You can't run a boxing ring when your fighters are all knocked out. And I will make sure all of your fighters are in a great condition to kick the opponent's ass."

Minho almost gasps. No one has dared to talk to Ava in that way before. Well, he _had_ before, but now he knows better. Newt doesn't know anything about this place. He is helpless.

Janson's face turns red with anger. He starts to say something, but Ava's smile signals that she's pleased. And heaven knows that's never a good thing. 

"I guess we have no choice, then. You're hired."

There's a smirk on Newt's face. He goes to shake Ava's hand, and she, much to the two fighters' shock, takes it. Newt seems satisfied, but Minho feels sorry for the guy. He had no idea what he signed up for.

 _Zero_ idea.

-

So. He has a job.

He supposes he should feel satisfied. A job is a job. Still, he intends to quit as soon as possible. Just a few months, six at most, and he will be out of here. He didn't tell Ava any of that, of course, he's not stupid. As of now, he is just simply relieved to finally have a source of income, shady as it is. Gally met him on the exit door, sending him off with a "Thank me later," and a smug smile he wanted to punch. For once, Gally is right, though, Newt ought to be thankful. But Gally disappeared before Newt could say his thanks, so Newt saved it for a later conversation.

"Newt!"

Newt turns around. There, running towards him, is Minho, Harriet and Sonya's infamous Hot Korean Guy. Of course.

Newt is torn between fleeing the scene and hiding in a dump until it's safe enough to show his face and waiting for Minho to catch up.

Minho catches up.

"So," he says, breathless and a little red in the nose. It's chilly out here, the promise of winter already there. "Hot Korean Guy, huh?"

Newt groans. God, he will murder Sonya and Harriet someday—after he finds out the secret recipe to Harriet's cupcakes, of course. "Why is that the only thing you remember?"

Minho grins in response. "Let me walk with you," he says, and what is Newt supposed to say to that? No?

Probably. Considering Minho is possibly dangerous. No one insane would think getting beaten up every day is a dream job.

Then again, Newt would be insane as well, seeing as he says yes.

"Cool," Minho says, and wastes no time beating around the bush. "Hey, so I heard you and Gally go way back. Were you exes or something?"

Newt is startled into a laugh. "God, _no_ ," he says. "I'm kind of offended you'd think that. We were enemies. Are. You know how high school is. I haven't seen him in years, until I met him in Brooklyn a few weeks ago."

"Good," Minho says.

"Good?"

"Yeah, I mean. I wouldn't want to be with someone who has bad taste."

Newt blinks. Was that his imagination or did Hot Korean Guy— _Minho_ —just flirt with him? While simultaneously insulting Gally?

"Um," Newt says.

"Kidding, I was just teasing you," Minho says.

"Cool," Newt says.

"Although, I have to ask, from what Gally had told me, you were basically a genius. How come you ended in a shithole like WICKED?"

Newt laughs nervously. "Gally said good things about me? Is this not armageddon?"

"I'm afraid not," Minho says. "So. How?"

"Only if you told me how you ended up there first," Newt says. Or flirts. Whatever. Something in Minho's eyes gave him the guts to do it. But Minho's face turns sour, and that's when Newt knows that apparently, he's crossed a line. 

Minho laughs, though, even if it's a little hysterical and forced. "You need to reach level 6 of friendship to unlock that story," Minho tells him.

"Wow, okay. I'm sorry, man. I totally didn't mean to intrude. It's just that—it's kinda been a long day, you know?"

Minho glances at him, and his eyes are suddenly a thousand years old. "Yeah, I know."

Newt has nothing to say to that, so he just keeps walking. Minho stops suddenly, causing Newt to bump into him.

"What?"

"I just realized," Minho says, "I never asked you where your house is."

"Oh. Well. It's a bit far, so I'm gonna need to take a taxi. Or the train. Or the bus, if it's still operating."

"Shit, man, then why are you walking this way? Bus station is the other way around, and there's no taxi in this neighborhood," Minho says.

"It's fine! I can crash at Harriet's, or call Sonya. It's cool."

"Harriet? Like the cupcake shop?" Minho sounds confused. "The owner and the other girl? They're your girlfriends or something?"

"Yes, the owner and the other girl. I mean—no! Don't get me wrong, they're objectively attractive, but Harriet is my sister's girlfriend. Sonya is my sister. And they're both gay. Well, Sonya is bi. Harriet is gay. And I'm gay. Like. As fuck. Shit. I didn't mean to say that." The award for The Most Embarrassing Exchange Ever goes to Isaac Newton! Congratulations! Newt wants to throw fucking confetti all over himself.

Minho's smile returns, and Newt is so fucking cheesy he thinks, _I never want that smile to disappear_. "Well, I'm bi, so," he grins. "Wait. They didn't know who I really am, right? Like, what I _do_ for a living?"

"No, no. They don't. I didn't tell them I got this job, too. Too risky. As far as they know, you're just the Hot Korean Guy," Newt reassures.

"Good that," Minho chuckles. After a few beats of silence, he looks up again. "So. Hot Korean Guy, huh?"

"I didn't make it up," Newt promises. "It was all Harriet and Sonya. They know your name, but they just refused to call you by name."

"I don't mind," Minho tells Newt slyly. "I know I'm hot."

"Oh my God," Newt says.

"Well, this is me," he says, lingering a little, like he wants to say something but unsure about it. In the end, he just says, "I have to go. See you tomorrow, Cute British Boy!"

Minho jogs away from Newt, his figure slowly disappearing into the rows of houses that litter the crowded neighborhood. Newt stays rooted to his spot.

 _Cute British Boy_.

That's definitely flirting, right?


	5. black is for mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt's first match as the official medic of WICKED is, to say the least, eventful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i'm not a doctor. i promise after this i'll do better at researching, since holiday is just around the corner and i plan to update at least once a week. (in that case, @people who's experienced in the medical field, wanna help me?)
> 
> -the plot is finally picking up. (and i apologize profusely for this chapter. ily all)
> 
> -thank you for people who have consistently been commenting and leaving kudos! you made my whole year.
> 
> -@myra i love you

Current situation: nothing illegal has happened. Yet.

Although that could be because Newt's only been here for three days, so he can't say he changed his mind about WICKED. But in the first three days of his new job, things have been pretty tame—in fact, all he's done is clean some wounds with alcohol, make daily check-ups, and give some oilment for sore muscle.

He doesn’t expect it to stay that way for a long time.

The atmosphere is different when he walks into the "office" today (using a back entrance that he doesn't even know exist, seriously, this is like some kind of _James Bond_ villain stuff. The upside to this is the fact that Sonya and Harriet can't see him from the cupcake shop). It's barely nine in the morning, but the fighters are already here, training with each other. He sees Minho with Gally, chatting as the latter helps puts on his glove ( _of course_ the first thing he sees is Minho, of _fucking_ course). Minho notices him and sends a smile his way, which Newt returns almost a second too late.

 _Not proffessional, Newt. He's technically your patient_ , he chides himself.

Alby, the one in charge to organize the fighters' schedules and matches, approaches him with a clipboard, writing some things down. "Good, you're here. Do your thing with Winston. He has a big match tonight. A minute, though, he's got to finish his round first." And by "your thing" Alby means daily check-up.

Newt nods, taking a sit and observing the scene before him. Now that it's not packed with people, Newt can see just how far the room stretches. There are more than one rings, although when it's match night only one is used, the biggest one in the center, and Minho is now on one of them, throwing punches as Gally, his training partner for the day, ducks and hits back.

Alby checks his watch, and apparently deciding that this is the time, he calls, "Winston!" A brown-skinned man, which Newt recalls is Winston, looks at their direction. Distracted, he barely deflects a punch from his partner. He stumbles and trips, falling on his butt. His partner apologizes and helps him up. Winston waves him off, and jogs over to Alby with a grin.

"What's up, Al?" he asks.

"You know Newt," Alby says, gesturing to Newt, who waves at Winston a little awkwardly. He's been introduced to the fighters on his first day, but he still doesn't fit with the rest of them (yet?). He knows Winston as the nicest of all the fighters. He doesn't look much like a fighter, a little too scrawny to be convincing, but his records are fine. Well, his defeats are not nearly non-existent, but his victories are also plenty. Newt's not an avid boxer fan, but if he has to guess Winston must be around the average level. "He's going to run a quick check-up. Just to be safe for tonight."

Something darkens Winston's eyes, and he has a look on his face not unlike Minho when Newt asked him how he ended up here. There's something that Newt doesn't know about this place, and he's not eager to find out what that is. He's not sure if he even wants to.

"Cool," Winston says after a long pause, and goes to sit on the ring-side bench. He smiles briefly at Newt, which makes Newt feel a little relieved.

Newt checks his temperature, counts his heartbeat rate, and asks him the standard questions— _do you feel okay, are you hurt anywhere, are you nauseous, dizzy?_ Winston hurt his wrist a few weeks ago—sprained, Newt concludes--but it looks like it's healed completely. Newt nods. "You're good to go," he declares. "Just don't exert your wrist so much. You still gotta save some strength for the match tonight, right?"

Winston smiles at that, although it doesn't reach his eyes. "Thanks, Doc," he says, and throws himself back into the ring.

-

The match is set for tonight at nine. People start trailing in by six, one by one, and not in large groups. _Clever_ , Newt thinks. Only employees enter through the back door, and the patrons are careful to not attract attention. Newt sits on the medic bench, worrying on his lower lip. This will be the first match he attends in which he's an official medic—medjack—and he's trying not to be nervous. He can't afford to.

There's only one ring set up, right in the center with spotlight shining down on it. The only way eyes would turn tonight.

A vibration in his jeans snaps him out of his reverie. His screen lights up with a text from Sonya.

_Want to go over to Harriet's tonight? We have Netflix and freshly baked chocolate caramel cupcakes._

And a bunch of emojis he can't be bothered to interpret.

Newt's fingers hover over the keyboard. He hasn't told Sonya about his new job—for good reason. Sonya would kill if she finds out what he partakes in. But he also doesn't want to lie to her.

"Who're you texting?"

Newt looks up. It's Minho, wearing a worn-out blue hoodie and sweatpants instead of his boxer shorts. _Right_ , Newt remembers. _Minho doesn't have a match for another three days._ (And hey, as a medic he must know this, okay.)

"My sister," he answers.

Minho slides down next to him. He smells very— _masculine_. Not like an Axe body spray, but something that's spicy and minty. It's quite distracting. "She found out about your job and kicked you out?"

"No," Newt says, then adds, "not yet at least."

"You planning to tell her?"

"No. It'd piss her off, and she'll kill me," Newt says. "And Harriet won't give me free cupcakes again."

"Those cupcakes are amazing, man."

"Good that," Newt laughs.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Winston, emerging from the locker room. Alby is by his side, saying something close to his ear. Winston nods, and Newt notices that he looks a little upset, like he's been set up for a fall before he even takes the jump.

"Big match tonight," Minho says absent-mindedly.

"Yeah," Newt nods. "You think Winston will win?"

Winston's opponent is no bigger than him, same height, same posture, same frame, just a little more muscle on his biceps. But Newt's heard the whispers, the money people slap on each other's hand, the betting pool growing in size. Seems like they're equal in strength.

"Yeah," Minho says. "Winston's great. He's awesome at this."

"I'm sure," Newt responds, but he still can't shake off the feeling that somehow Winston is not going to be okay. "Why are you here?" he asks Minho instead, hoping for a subject change.

Minho raises an eyebrow. "What, you don't miss this pretty face?"

Currently, there's a yellowing bruise on the side of his jaw and a cut over his eyebrow. His hair is wet and messy, and it occurs to Newt he must've taken a shower back in the locker room. That's why he smells so nice.

Newt turns his head away, mostly for his sake.

"That's a bruised face," Newt points out.

"I'm still dashing anyway," Minho grins. "I mean, I am indeed famous for being Hot Korean Guy."

Newt groans. "Dude, drop it."

Minho laughs. "Nah, it's too fun to watch you all flustered like this."

"I take it back. I take everything I said about you back. You are not hot at all. You're the most obnoxious Korean I have ever had the displeasure to meet."

Minho laughs again, a heart-warming little sound, and Newt forgets all about Winston and the uneasiness in his chest.

-

The match starts exactly at nine. The bell sounds and the referee steps aside, giving room for the fighters to fight. It's wild from the start, a blur of punches and lunges, and Newt, who has only seen a boxing match once before, has difficulties following Winston's movements. It doesn't seem like Minho is having the same problem.

The first four rounds are adrenaline-stimulating. None of the two fighters seem to be dominating. The patrons are in an uproar; when both sides have the same chance, everyone thinks they will be the winner.

The fifth round starts, and Winston comes off a little stronger this time. "Finish him!" Newt yells, pumped up on adrenaline as if he's the one who's fighting on the ring. Winston hits his opponent hard, causing him to stumble. The next blow that comes toward Winston weak; his opponent must not have recovered fully. Winston twists around, perfectly dodging the blow. Newt sees something in his eyes change, then. Fire begins to burn in the fighter’s eyes, determination beginning to grow into something more vigorous than physical strength.

The next two rounds pass almost like a dream, with Winston delivering one fatal blow and another, the opponent visibly getting overwhelmed, yet still fighting back ferociously. Both of them end up with bleeding cuts by the end of the eight round, but Winston bears a huge smile on his face when he bounces to the side bench, trying to get to Newt, who's ready with cotton swabs and alcohol. But Minho gets to him first, hugging him like Winston’s his brother, and says something to his ear that makes Winston lose his smile. Newt can't make out what Minho tells him, but it seems like it's spiteful. But maybe it's just his imagination, maybe that's how the fighters joke around.

Newt tries his best to stop the bleeding, applying a careful amount of adrenaline to the cut. But head wounds bleed a lot. He helps Winston drink from his water bottle and puts his mouthpiece in.

"Good luck," he says, and the shiny grin Winston sends his way makes Newt wonder how he could ever think something could go wrong.

(He doesn't notice Ava coming up to Winston just seconds before he gets up to the ring, the tips of her fingers softly brushing his shoulders. A tame enough interaction between employer and employee, but if only he’d known what Ava said to him.)

The ninth round starts. There's different energy in the air, and Newt can feel it. The patrons betting on Winston are hyped up, feeling like victory is in their hands already. But Winston's opponent is relentless. In the face of an oncoming defeat, it seems that the opponent becomes more aggressive, his punches more powerful, more purposeful. Winston deflects all of them, but one, and this one hits him between the ribs (is that even fucking allowed?) and Winston staggers back, losing his balance.

That's his first mistake.

Another punch flies his way, and Winston ducks a second too late. He falls flat on the floor, and the opponent latches onto him, punching him again and again and again.

The referee tries to wrench the opponent away from Winston, but he instead gets a faceful of elbow. His attempt to break the clinch fails, and now instead of just punching, the opponent has resorted to kicking him—and the next five seconds are the most excruciating moment in his life, _because_ —

One—Minho darts into the ring, and Gally, too, he must’ve been watching from the other side—two—Alby follows close behind him, panic and fear written in his eyes, no one cares about the rules anymore—three—Newt looks towards Ava and she's fucking _smiling in delight_ —four—he hears a sickening crack—five—

_"Winston!"_

-

Newt has seen violence.

When he was twelve, a bunch of mean kids pushed him down the stairs for kissing Jack Benson's cheek. The damage in his right leg was permanent, and although years of therapy had made it easy to imitate normal walking, on bad days, it hurt so much to walk to the kitchen from the bedroom. Sonya punched the bullies after she found out, and she was over the moon when she showed him her swollen knuckles, but their parents were furious, and so was he. That was the first—and maybe only—time he’d ever gotten mad at his sister. He prefers to solve problems with talking—or actions that aren't violent. That's why he became a doctor.

Maybe he should've gone into diplomacy, maybe his parents had been right. Maybe he'd make a good lawyer—maybe he could've met Minho in some other circumstances, pulled out enough laws and evidence to put WICKED and everyone that stood with it to a lifetime sentence, because this, in front of him, is not violence.

It's an attempt of murder. No, the opponent isn't just trying to incapacitate Winston, this is more than just winning or losing. More than just—destroying one another. This is essentially _slaughter_.

Together, Gally and Minho manages to pull Winston's opponent off of Winston, and Newt can see just how much it's killing him to not be able to wreck him in the way he wrecked Winston. Newt, his instincts finally kicking in, moves to grab the first aid kit, and jumps onto the ring. He is expecting it to look bad, but he's still shocked anyway to see the strange angle Winston's leg is bent towards. But his hands are steady, and his mind is already working on what he can do. He told someone to get him ice, and someone, Alby, maybe, rushes off to do it. He can do a makeshift splint, he just needs—

"There's no need to do that, Newt," Janson says. "This is beyond your responsibility."

"I know. You should get him to the hospital. I don't have anything that I can do to help him right now. I'll call 911," Newt fishes out his phone, and has it immediately snatched away from his hand. "Janson, what the fuck?! Give me my phone back! Can't you see he's suffering?"

"Were you not listening? There's no need to. Medical help is already on the way."

As if on cue, two men immediately appear. They help get Winston up on one leg, his arms around their shoulders. They guide Winston towards the exit, groaning and moaning in pain the whole time, and Newt moves to follow them.

Janson puts a hand on his chest.

"I told you. This is beyond your responsibility."

"I'm his medic!" Newt protests. "Am I just supposed to watch while he's hurt?"

"Medical help is already on the way," Janson says, handing him his phone back, and leaves.

Newt turns to Gally and Minho, stunned to silence. “You work for people like him?”

But Newt also works for people like Janson. For Ava, who smiles in the face of slaughter, who does nothing but stand by and watch as she watches crime unfold in front of her. Gally and Minho say nothing. No one dares to make a sound.

Only then, in Winston's absence, it hits him. The whole ring has gone quiet. Newt never has much time for poetic—never likes the term butterflies in stomach or a the deafening silence. But he looks around now, at the stunned faces of the patrons, and wishes the deafening silence in his ears would disappear.

-

Winston doesn't come the next day.

Newt wouldn't have expected him to. He couldn't identify the damage just by looking, but he's sure that he'd broken his leg, if not worse. Winston wouldn't be here for a week or two, and even then it would be a long time before he would be able to fight again.

Minho doesn't talk. He wraps a piece of black cloth around his wrist. Alby says it's how they mourn a lost fighter.

"What do you mean, _lost_?" Newt asks. "Is Winston okay? Is he—"

"Dead? No. But he won't be able to fight," Alby says.

"And you just—did nothing? What Winston's opponent did last night, I know that's against the rules. Why can't we put charges on their team?"

"Because you don't call the shots here," Alby says, his gaze hardening. "You're a medic. Don't meddle in the affair of the fighters."

That evening, Ava and Janson pay a visit. They're bringing someone with them. A boy, his hair in a state of disarray and probably his life too, it seems, if he ends up here at all.

"This is Thomas," Janson introduces. "He's Winston's replacement. Make him feel at home, guys."

(And Winston doesn't come tomorrow or the day after that or the day after or the day after that or the day—)

Newt wraps a piece of black clothing around his wrist.


	6. reflexes and drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minho knows all about the mechanism of drowning, but he is not prepared for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know. it's 2016 and i haven't updated anything. honestly, i have no excuse other than laziness. complete and utter laziness. i'm so sorry for dragging this for so long. i don't know i did, but i'm sorry that i procrastinated until the holiday was offer. but i've written about ten-pages worth, and i'm hoping to post double chapters tonight, so i hope you can all forgive me?
> 
> this chapter is sort of when things start to get real. and yes, i have lined this to be about 12 chapters, so you're halfway there! spoiler: here comes minho angst.
> 
> as always, dedicated to the lovely neonstyxx!

WICKED never gives anyone a break. If there’s anything that Minho has learned from “working” here, if punching people and losing deliberately could be considered as an acceptable way to make a living, it’s that. WICKED is relentless, no good, immoral, corrupt, a fucking pain in the ass—and it never gives anyone a break.

So why doesn’t he just quit?

 _Ha_. If Minho takes a shot every time someone asks him that, he would have died eons ago of liver failure.

It hasn’t even been 48 hours since Winston was defected. _Was_ , because WICKED never lets anyone quit. But the second they want someone gone, they’ll get rid of them like flies on a piece of a cake, without much effort and without much care. As soon Winston walked into the ring, he knew that he’s been set up to lose. And worse than that, crippled. WICKED refuses to give them any information concerning Winston, but Alby, Ava’s trusted “project manager,” employed though as he is, stands for nothing WICKED does, and after the lights have gone out and Ava told them to remove their black hand-pieces, Alby told him where Winston is. Minho told Gally, Gally told everyone—and exactly the day after, discreetly, they all boarded a train to where Winston’s hospital, sweaty and covered in grime from a day of training.

Meanwhile, Newt is MIA. Minho didn't expect otherwise. He would've quit, too.

Winston is hospitalized, obviously. His leg is broken, and though surgery saved him, Winston may never be able to walk normally again. He’ll be limping for life. When Minho saw him, Winston smiled, and his heart ached then—aches now, too—with how much positivity was in his former fellow fighter’s eyes, how he was clearly struggling so hard to be happy, not to wince with the slightest move, to show his friends that, _I’m fine, guys, seriously._

It reminded Minho of his family.

Alby brought him milk. “You know, vitamin D and calcium and all that,” he’d said, grinning. Winston downed almost everything in the carton. He dumped a quarter part on Alby, angering the nurses and getting them kicked out and possibly banned from the hospital. Alby was drenched to the bone and his skin felt sticky, but Winston was smiling and Alby, too, for the whole train ride home, and Minho thought, _Well, okay, we’re just going to climb through the window._

Gally brought him nothing, but he hugged Winston the longest. Which is weird, since Gally is not usually an affectionate person. The others presented  him with fruits and porn magazines to "keep you entertained." Winston told them, rather nonchalantly, that he’s actually ace, and that rather than admire the boobs, he’d rather admire the pornstar’s hair— _because how come it’s always on point?_ They all had laughed at that, even Gally, who never laughs unless it’s at something condescending.

Minho brought Winston cupcakes bought from Harriet; all twelve of the special flavors. Winston loved them, and on the days where Minho deems it okay to treat himself, he buys a lot of cupcakes for the fighters. Winston would always eat the last one, and used to bug Minho to tell him where he got them. Minho would never tell him. He’d like to keep it a secret, for some absurd reason, to create an illusion that he’s just an ordinary guy, not unlike the strangers you pass on the streets, he has a favorite cupcake shop and doesn’t get his money by illegally fighting people.

“Harriet’s Cupcakes,” Minho told Winston just before visiting hour was over. “You should go there after you’re healed. They ran out of mint-chocochip cupcake today, but it’s the best, you should try it.”

He doesn’t know why it matters, now. Newt’s directly connected to the shop, and if he were a wiser man, he shouldn’t want to touch the place with a teen-foot pole if he wishes to keep his occupation a secret. It’s not only because of the heavenly cupcakes, he knows—he keeps coming back because it’s his last string to what he hopes resemble a mundane life. He never acknowledges it until now, being called again into Ava Paige’s office, receiving yet another _task_.

Like he said, WICKED never gives anyone a break.

They want him to lose again. _Ava_ wants him to lose again.

“You should feel honored,” Ava tells him. “The owner of The Hut himself pleaded me with the deal. His seasoned fighter was not doing so well, and people were starting to lose interest in him. Jackie Shu, his name is. He offered ten grands, and then twenty, and then fifty when I told him I wasn’t interested. He was so scared of you that he’d rather give me all of his savings than afford another lose. You’re going to give this man a name. A career.”

“By purposely losing,” Minho says. “It would affect _my_ career. People won’t bet on me again, and I won’t be able to pay my rent.”

“No worries,” Ava says. “We have you covered.” She pushes a piece of a paper towards him—a cheque. The zeroes are a little more than Minho is used to seeing, and he narrows his eyes at her. Suddenly he feels angry—angry at himself, for being so defenseless against the power this woman has on him, and at Ava, for abusing that power.

Minho lifts a hand to the cheque. Ava is quicker, she snatches the thin piece of paper away before Minho gets to it, and smirks at Minho’s confused look. “You will get this after the match,” Ava says.

Minho scoffs, and his rage is boiling inside him like molten lava. “That is, if you don’t break my leg first, right?”

“Yes, and your family in the process,” Ava confirms sweetly.

Minho sees red, and he stands up, so abruptly his chair falls off, and hits Ava. Only it doesn’t hit her. His fist connects with Janson’s jaw instead, and the fault in his actions dawn on him as Janson doubles over, Ava looking at the whole scene _smiling_.

“Well,” Ava raises one eyebrow, looking in all the world like her writhing right-hand man is not in the room. Her eyes are piercing blue, and Minho feels _cold_. “You always have anger problems. That is why your father is gone.”

Minho closes his eyes. Years and years of not thinking of his father, one word from Ava and now it’s come crashing down on him like a tidal wave. “Telling you was the worst mistake I have ever made,” Minho tells her. “And coming here, too, thinking I could make a living out of this shitty business.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Ava points out.

“ _Only because of my family_!” Minho shouts.

“Ah, your family. The sweet, petite Ms. Park, and your little siblings. How old is Minkyu now, hmm? Ten? Twelve? He was so little when I met him, sweet little boy. But who knows, maybe under all of those sweet facade, he has muscles that will grow just like yours. Maybe he’ll follow your footsteps—“

“My brother will be _nothing_ like me!” Minho grabs Ava’s collar roughly, pulling her into him. Ava gasps, clearly not expecting him to act out, and Janson, still incapacitated on the floor, groans in pain, clearly wanting to take Ava’s place but in no condition to do so. “You _will not_ get him.”

“Guards!” Ava squeaks, and in almost no time two of her bodyguards have appeared, pulling Minho off her. Alby, always there whenever Minho’s in trouble, follows after them hurriedly. He must have heard all the yelling—the office has thin walls. He gets a hand around Minho’s middle, while both of Minho’s hand are pulled back by the bodyguards, and forces him away from Ava.

“You will not get him! You hear me? _YOU WILL NOT GET HIM_!” Minho swears, still fighting to get to her. Ava’s suit, usually in a perfect condition, is now in a state of disarray, her collar bent and creased. Janson pulls himself to his feet and shields himself in front of Ava.

“Alby, take care of him,” Janson tells him through bloody teeth.

“Make sure he’s stabilized for the next match, and _make sure he follows my orders_ ,” Ava adds, like Minho is a dog that needs to be disciplined. Minho snarls at her, but Ava is unmoved. “And Minho— _behave_. Your family back home will appreciate it.”

“Back home?” Minho growls. “And let go of me, Alby— _you fuck_ —you don’t know where they are, Ava! I keep them safe from your fucking filthy hands!”

Alby shakes his head. “Minho, just stop—“

“Are they?” Ava meets his stare, dead-cold. “Well, I sure hope they really are as safe as you think, at home with your aunt Mina in Jinju. Or should I say back at the bed and breakfast, where they now live, right?”

And just like that, all the fight is drained from Minho. His body sags against the wall, where Alby, with the help of the two bodyguards, have cornered him to.

“You—you know?”

When you drown, you keep your mouth closed. It’s the body’s first reflex against drowning. You fight like hell to keep the water from entering your mouth, even  when your head feels like it’s exploding, even when you feel like it would hurt less if you just open your mouth, sink to the bottom. But if it means surviving, your body is willing to withstand a little agonize. But there’s the moment where your body can’t fight it anymore, your reflex fails, and this is where you open your mouth. Your body allows you to open it only because there’s no chance you’re going to survive this. The exploding sensation in your head is gone now, replaced by another level of pain. But after a while, a little trashing here and there, your body goes limp.

And this, right now—is Minho opening his mouth.

He doesn’t hear Ava barking at the guards to take Minho out. Doesn’t hear the door close. Doesn't hear Alby calling out to him, pulling him to sit in the locker room. Doesn't hear the other fighters scramble to get out of the room, knwoing storm is brewing. Doesn't hear Alby telling him he's going to leave him alone until he regains his bearings. Doesn't hear the door close. Doesn’t hear anything.

He’s drowning.


	7. flip phones don't go out of style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss with a fist is better than none.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH so i just found out this fic got nominated at this minewt-top-20-fic-rec-voting-is-now-open poll??? WOW I'M SO HONORED. thank you so much, whoever put my fic up there. it's so happy to wake up to that news (and thanks neonstyxx, who's also up with a fic, for telling me!) here's the promised chapter 7. hope you like it! c:
> 
> also, can you spot the hamilton reference?

“What’s bothering you?”

Sonya’s blue eyes search for his, concerned but trying hard not to show it. Years and years of having to hide her sexuality has made her refrain from showing affection even to his brother, and she gets a little awkward now around him when she realizes he’s not okay. Newt wants to take her hand and assure her that he’s okay, really—physically, at least. Mentally, he still can’t get Winston out of his head, the way his agonized screams filled his ears when his arm was broken.

But he can’t tell her that.

“It’s nothing,” Newt says. “Work stuff.”

“Co-workers being a dick?” Harriet asks from where she’s been listening from the counter, stacking fresh muffins on the display, the unmistakable smell of baked goods wafting through the air. Newt loves many things about the cupcake shop, but this moment is his favorite, the moment where Harriet takes out a batch of cupcakes from the oven, still hot to the touch, and the smell of home and comfort engulf his nose.

 _Oh, it’s so much more than just being a dick_. “Kind of,” Newt says vaguely.

“Which gym do you work at, anyway?” Sonya asks.

“Uh,” Newt’s mind races, looking for a lie. He told them he works at a gym as a physio when Sonya, inevitably, asked him the whereabouts of his new “office.” It’s a half-truth, so he isn’t exactly lying, right? “Somewhere. You wouldn’t know where that is. It’s pretty secluded and far away. Very exclusive, only a handful of super-rich millionaires have access to it. You have to gain a membership. Yeah. Pretty restricted to us less-privileged lowly beings.”

He knows Sonya and Harriet can see right through his bullshit. He prays they let it drop.

They do—at least Sonya does. Harriet is looking at him suspiciously without pausing her muffin-stacking duties. Harriet is terrifyingly perceptive. The more time he spends at her presence, the more secrets he will reveal, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to see their reactions to it. Harriet is never fond of the authorities, growing up black, and she hates it when the more privileged, the less stigmatized part of the community abuse the protection the law guarantees for them. If she knows Newt is partaking in an unauthorized business, Harriet will be furious—and Sonya, too, by extension.

The way Winston was beaten up—somehow Newt feels that none of it was accidental, despite what the referee declared. Winston was already on the mat when his opponent charged and broke his leg. The referee could’ve stopped it, but he only stepped in after Winston was injured. Him, too—he was there, just a few feet away from the ring, he could’ve done something about it, and yet he stood by and watched as a crime occured.

(“There’s nothing that you could’ve done,” Minho told him in a locker after Winston disappeared, black cloth wrapped around his wrist, a reminder of rage and pain. Ava told him to remove it as soon as she saw it. “It’s not your fault, it’s not mine, it’s not Winston’s.” _It’s WICKED’s_ , Minho didn’t say, but Newt heard it all the same.)

He received his first payment last night, a large amount of money suddenly transferred into his bank account followed by a text from Alby which simply said, _Pay day_. He hasn’t used that money. His wallet stays empty, with only a couple (three, to be exact) ten dollar bills and his landlord still threatens to evict him every morning. It doesn’t feel right—it feels like he’s laughing in the face of another’s sorrow, like he’s the one closing a fist and using it to break Winston’s leg into two.

“Well,” Sonya says, “whoever those dicks think they are, they’re not worth your time. Here, take some muffins. On the house.”

“Hey,” Harriet says, amused. “I’m the boss here, lady, I don’t think you have the right to decide which customers to grace with free muffins.”

“But I’m your girlfriend,” Sonya whines, her eyes wide, and Newt can see the exact moment Harriet melts. Newt hopes they get married and have a lot of beautiful bone-marrow babies. He’s going to cry and get so drunk at their wedding, but they will be cute and adorable and they will be channeling enough happiness to fuel half of the world. And hopefully to Minho and the rest of the fighters too.

“Take two blueberry muffins, Newt,” Harriet says, finally turning her eyes away from Sonya. “You’d better go now if you don’t want to be late.”

“Yeah, especially since your office is, like, very very far away,” Sonya says, grinning, stuffing two blueberry muffins into a paper bag emblazoned with _Harriet’s Cupcakes_ on it in fancy swirly writing. Newt accepts it gratefully.

“You guys are the best,” Newt smiles at them. He can’t help but wonder what Winston is eating for breakfast. Hospital food always tastes bland, almost close to cardboard. Suddenly, the sweet fruity smell coming from the paper bag becomes very unappetizing to him. Maybe he’ll just give it to Minho. _Minho_. He has an upcoming match this week, and Newt can’t stop putting Minho in Winston’s stead in his head, screaming as he’s being broken, even though he admitted defeat already.

“Oh, thought it might cheer you up—Minho showed up last night. Bought like six cupcakes, and then just left. I didn’t get to take selfies,” Sonya says, and Newt knows she means well but it only makes him feel even worse. He hasn’t showed up to work in two days. Not that Alby asked him to, and there are no matches the last two days. Still, the fighters must be all training, and Newt should be there to run daily check-ups over them.

“I’d better go now,” Newt says hurriedly, getting up from the stool he’s been sitting on and racing to the door.

“Have fun at work!” Harriet exclaims, disappearing into the kitchen soon after. Newt is half out of the door when he hears Sonya call out his name. She’s doing that thing again where she tries to look very unaffected by the situation, but is actually worried as hell. He knows how he sounded—giving only ambiguous details about his work, not even where it’s located. Sonya trusts him enough not to go all Sherlock on him, and Newt loves her for it.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“I know you probably don’t need a pep talk, you’re pretty good at that yourself, and you always know what’s good for you, but,” Sonya shrugs, “just a reminder, I guess—if you don’t love it, don’t do it.”

Newt is struck by how out of the place the statement feels. It’s so easy, coming from Sonya’s mouth. If he doesn’t love it, he shouldn’t do it. He doesn’t condone violence, so what the hell is he doing, going back to the place that perpetuates it? The answer is so obvious, why the hell hasn’t he thought of it before?

“Sometimes the answer is already in front of you,” Sonya continues, not unkindly. “You just need someone to spell it out.”

“Yeah,” Newt murmurs, registering just how heavy the muffin feels in his hands. He looks up slowly, meeting Sonya’s eyes levelly. “You’re right. Yeah. Thanks, sis—I have to go now.”

He runs.

-

“I want to quit,” is the first thing Newt says when he arrives. Janson barely notices him coming in to the office, Ava unusually absent, focused on the clipboard clutched to his chest. Newt is hoping he could talk to Ava herself, but he’ll take his right-hand man just fine.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Janson remarks.

“I mean it, I want to quit,” Newt tells him. “I haven’t used any of the money you sent me. I will transfer it back to you immediately. I want no part in this anymore. I quit.”

Janson fixes him with an unamused look. Newt is startled to see bruises blooming on his face, like someone punched the teeth out of him. He decides not to mention it. “That would be unfortunate, if you quit. I’ve decided that maybe I was wrong the first time, that you were really better than the previous med-jacks.”

“ _Better than the previous_ —“ Newt inhales sharply. “What I saw yesterday was not a match, Janson. It was a—slaughter. He broke Winston, Janson. Don’t tell me you didn’t see that he was beaten up even after he was on the floor. It’s a clear violation of the regulations, it’s essentially a planned murder, and if by _better_ you mean I would do nothing in the face of shit like that, you’re dead wrong. You’ve been wrong about me since the first time you saw me.”

“You went from eager to work to eager to quit in a record’s time,” Janson notes, completely disregarding Newt’s point. “The previous one had about three bad matches before he cracked. You saw one and decided we’re all evil.”

“I didn’t decide anything,” Newt says. “Winston fought for you. When he was beaten up, you did nothing. I think it’s clear who’s in the despicable side in that scenario.”

Janson laughs, a sound that makes Newt itch for a fight. “Despicable. Really. You seem to know a lot for someone who disappeared for two days.”

“I know that Winston deserves justice,” Newt says. “Why did you do nothing?”

Janson laughs. “You speak like you believe in Utopia. Do you?”

“You’re just avoiding my question now,” Newt says impatiently. “Why didn’t you sue the other team? Everyone knows it’s against the rules to keep hitting your opponent when he’s face-down on the mat. And yet the referee let it happen. You can’t tell me that’s fair.”

“Sue the other team through lawyers? Using the _law_?” Janson shakes his head. “Coming from an unauthorized boxing ring, operating in secret? C’mon, you’re not a moron.”

“Then do something that doesn’t involve the law! You found a way to keep this secret from law enforcement, you can find a way to confront them without using the law. I don’t know, use Ava’s connections or something. The referee has to answer to what he’s done.”

Janson sighs, in a way that signals he’s dealt with a situation akin to this before. He takes his eyes off the clipboard, finally, and levels Newt with an underestimating look. His mouth has a little smudge of blood on the corner. “You’re a medic. Your job is to keep the fighters safe—“

“Winston’s not safe, he’s injured and no one’s even paid him a visit—“

“I am not finished,” Janson cuts him off coldly. “I think you need someone to remind you what your position is. You don’t know how this ring works, not yet, at least. You don’t run this place, you don’t know what measures we’ve taken to ensure that all of our fighters are in a prime condition. You have been here for how long, three weeks, tops? You’re practically a greenie.” Janson leans down so he can speak directly to Newt’s nose, “Maybe if you ask your Minho why he lost the first night you saw him, you would know. But until then—don’t. Meddle. In. What’s _not_. Your. Business.”

Janson pulls away, straightening his back. His eyes are again back on his clipboard. “But if you still wish to quit, very well. I expect the money to be transferred back by six pm tonight. If not, you’ll have to pay double. Understood?”

“I’m not a little kid,” Newt grits his teeth. “I’m fuckin’ ecstatic to leave this place,” he spits out, turning on his heels with ideas already whirring in his brain. He should go to the police. There’s probably a huge chance he won’t get away unscathed, but he’s willing to take that risk.

“Oh, and Newt?” Janson says just before his hand touches the door handle. “I don’t think this is necessary, as you’re not an employee anymore, but Minho has a match today.”

“That’s not true. His match is not supposed to be for another two days,” Newt scrunches his nose.

“We moved the date forward. There’s been a high demand—and well, we serve the people,” Janson’s teeth are stained red as he bares them. He smiles at Newt like he knows he’s won.

Newt freezes. He sees Minho again, in his head, taking a beating and not fighting back, blood and bruises covering every inch of his exposed skin. Newt feels dread settle low in his chest, and he hates losing, he really, really does, especially to those who don’t deserve victory, but he turns his face at Janson’s direction, and admits his defeat.

Janson’s smile hurts his chest.

“And he’s in the locker room, just for your information!”

-

The new recruit is hovering near the locker room when Newt finally gathers the guts to see Minho. The kid’s face instantly lits up when he sees Newt, grabbing his shoulders lightly and pointing at the closed door. “Thank god you showed up,” the kid says, his eyes wide like a puppy’s, and Newt mourns for all the soul he will lose after his first match. “Something is wrong with Minho,” he whispers, like he’s afraid Minho will hear and tear his teeth out by hand.

Newt struggles to remember the kid’s name. “Uh. Tommy, was it?”

“Thomas,” the kid corrects. “I’m just worried, because he looks down. I think he needs someone to check up on him, but everyone keeps telling me to leave him alone.”

“Listen, uh, Minho’s probably fine. He gets like that before a match. The adrenaline, you know,” Newt lies. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with Minho, either. But he wants to find out, and somehow he doesn’t want the kid to be with him when he does. “So you can—go, now. Seriously. Minho’s 100% fine.”

Thomas looks at Newt, clearly not buying this. But Thomas nods and slides away, back into the training mat, where everyone is purposely avoiding looking in the direction of the locker rooms. Newt sighs. Why would he think this is going to be easy? WICKED is nothing but an enabler. _I’ll quit after Minho,_ he promises to himself. _One last match, and then I’m out_.

He enters the locker room.

It’s vacant, except for the lone figure sitting on one bench with his head in his hands. Minho. His body shakes slightly, and Newt realizes with a jolt Minho is crying. He immediately feels like an intruder. He considers leaving him alone, like Thomas said, but Minho looks up then, and Newt is caught like a deer in the headlights.

“What are you doing here?” Minho croaks out, sounding angry.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“Get out.”

Minho wipes away the tears. This is how Newt would envision Atlas looking like, shouldering the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Get out,” Minho tells him once again, weakly. Like he’s used all of his voice screaming. “You don’t wanna be here. Get out.”

“Wrong. I want to be here,” Newt says, taking a step forward.

“You don’t,” Minho grits his teeth, standing up now. “In fact, you need to leave now. Quit this job. Run away as far away as you can, and never get back here.”

Newt hesitates. Does he tell Minho that he was planning to do just that, until Janson revealed to him that Minho’s match got rescheduled? _No_. Something tells him there’s something bigger than Minho lets on, and he’s determined to find out. “You’re not the boss of me,” Newt says. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Maybe I don’t, but if you’re not stupid you’d listen to me.” Minho’s eyes are the eyes of a man who wants to run away, but has his legs shackled. He grips both of Newt’s shoulders hard. “Listen to me. Get out of here while you can. You can find better jobs than here.”

This is not the Minho he knows, not the one who flirts and smiles at him under the lamp post. “Tell me what’s going on,” Newt requests.

“I can’t,” Minho pries his hands off his shoulders, running it through his hair instead. He paces the room in panic. “I can’t tell you. But it’s very, very dangerous. I don’t want you to get involved.”

“Why? What can’t you tell me?” Newt presses, following after Minho. Then he remembers what Janson said. _Maybe if you ask your Minho why he lost the first night you saw him, you would know._ Newt bites his lip. “Janson—he told me to ask you. Why you lost the match the first time you met me,” Newt says.

Minho laughs, and it’s a broken sound. “Of course he told you to ask me, instead of just explaining it to you. Of fucking course.”

“Something bad is happening, right?” Newt guesses. Minho plops himself on the bench again, slumped against one of the lockers. He looks at Newt with tired eyes, but Newt keeps going. “Something very, very bad is happening right under my nose and I don’t know about it. And it has to do with Winston.”

“That’s why you need to leave.”

“That’s why I need to know what’s happening,” Newt insists. “So I can help you.”

“You can’t help me,” Minho almost sounds like he’s pleading. “You can’t help me.”

Newt ignores him. “What happened to Winston—that’s not an accident. I know it. The referee was paid to make Winston lose, there’s no other explanation. He was face-down on the mat, and the other team kept beating him. That was against the rules. Why did Ava let it happen?”

“Newt, please, go home.”

“One of your friends was brutalized and you told me to go home?” Newt says in disbelief. “What is wrong with this place?”

“ _Everything_!” Minho yells out. He’s stood up and advancing on Newt, backing him to far wall behind the medic. “Everything is wrong with this fucking place. I was brought here, thinking I could maybe work here for a while, save enough money to move on to a better job. But this place doesn’t let you go. But you get in to deep, and you’re in prison now. Don’t you understand? I’m in prison.”

“Then let me get you out,” Newt whispers, aware that his back has hit the wall, Minho’s breath only an inch away.

“Didn’t you hear me? You can’t!” Minho shouts. “Three years ago, Ava found me. I haven’t eaten in two days, I gave all my food to my mother and siblings. No one wanted to hire an Asian with no real skills. I couldn’t shelf a book, couldn’t stack food in fucking Wal-Mart, couldn’t make coffee at Starbucks. I couldn’t find a job. One day, I saw three people ganging up on a woman. I jumped on them, beat them up. The woman ran away, but Ava found me. She offered me a job—this job. And I thought, why not, you know? Can’t be permanent. As soon as I have enough, I’ll quit.”

Minho laughs again. Newt wants to tell him he doesn’t have to pretend to not be coming apart at the seams. “Wrong fucking move. I got too good, the other rings hate me. They start paying her to make me lose. The first time, I rebelled. I got the other guy good. And then I came home and—“ Minho exhales, and there are tears in his eyes. He wipes them away. “Ava was with them. My family.”

“She threatened you,” Newt says. Minho nods gravely.

“But you can fight back,” Newt says. “You can—move them somewhere safe—back in Korea—“

“I did that,” Minho cuts him off. “And still Ava found out. Now no one is safe because of me.”

“None of this is your fault,” Newt says. “I can—I can help you. I can quit here, tell the police, video-tape a match for evidence—I can do something, okay? I will try to help you,” he continues, but Minho is already shaking his head.

“No, you can’t.”

“I can try—“

“ _No_!” Minho yells, and Newt closes his eyes as Minho punches the wall next to his left ear. He hears a crack, he’s broken his knuckles probably, and it scares him that he’s not scared at all at Minho. He opens his eyes slowly to see the most anguished expression on Minho’s face. “Shit, shit,” he says, getting as far away from Newt as possible. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, fuck—“

Newt follows him.

“No, get away from me, Newt, I’m dangerous,” Minho says helplessly, crouched on floor with his bloody knuckles covering his eyes.

But Newt takes Minho’s hands, both of them, slowly. “What are you doing?” Minho asks.

“There’s—there’s something that I’ve always wanted to do ever since I met you,” Newt says, not knowing where he got all this bravery from. “Can I kiss you?”

Minho’s answer is to put his arms around Newt and clash his lips against Newt’s. The way he kisses is like the way he fights—relentless, calculated, rough. One of his hands grips the back of Newt’s neck, and the other snakes down his hips, squeezing. Newt has never been kissed like this in his whole life, like Minho is afraid to let go—

“I can’t do this,” Minho says, pulling away forcefully. “Fuck, I’ve done it. Now I’ve endangered you too.” He gets up to leave, but Newt grips his hand.

“Minho, wait, we can figure this out—“

“There’s no way out of this! Don’t you understand?” Minho grabs Newt by the shoulders. “Go, Newt. Go away. I don’t want to see you again.”

And with that, Minho leaves.

-

“I got it.”

_“You got it?”_

“Yes, taped and everything. I don’t think anyone sees me.”

_“Good. Keep up the good work.”_

“Thanks, Tess. I’ll get back to you later.”

He flips his phone close. People keep telling him to give up his ancient phone, but nothing feels quite as satisfying as flipping his phone close dramatically. The wind is getting to his bones and he regrets not bringing a scarf. He feels his pocket for a tiny little square thing—his USB. How far technology has gone, that this device not bigger than his little finger will be the key that solve this case. How far humanity has advanced.

He can’t wait for the grand finale.


End file.
